


Azure On Grey

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amusement Parks, Don't copy to another site, Embarrassing Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kidney Stones, M/M, Medical issues, Pining John, Sharing a Bed, brief mention of past substance abuse, friends to almost lovers, hints of romance, unorthodox medical treatments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: When Sherlock’s transport betrays him and conventional healthcare fails to help, John comes up with an unorthodox solution...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 223
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Azure On Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to hotshoe_again for the (as always) excellent beta work and J_Baillier for letting me pick her medical brain about pain management.

“Sherlock, you okay? What’s going on?”

To the outside observer, nothing is amiss with Sherlock. Dressed in white shirt and well-fitting trousers, he looks as polished and professional as ever, perhaps a touch on the casual side, what with the rolled-up sleeves.

John’s keen eye catches however a sheen of perspiration that glues Sherlock’s curls to his forehead. A grimace of half-contained panic. And the stiffness of someone moving not without considerable pain.

“I… might require your medical assistance.”

\--

It had not been an overly complicated day at the surgery (when is it really?) but John had been happy to be back home.

 _Home_. It’s no longer a descriptor for a physical place, four walls enclosing material belongings and personal effects. _Home_ is the creaking on some of the seventeen steps leading up to the flat; the smell of heavy draperies, the fire in the hearth staving off the chill of a late February evening; and above all, the presence of Sherlock, perhaps reading in his chair, sitting at his microscope or plucking his violin.

And so, it had been an unremarkable evening as evenings go in 221b. The fact that Sherlock had seemed determined in ploughing a trench in the carpet by walking back and forth when John pushed the door open into the flat had mostly been ignored – Sherlock in a strop when no case is on is far from being unusual. A bit less usual had been his immediate disappearance into his bedroom when John tried to say ‘hello’ – seemingly to continue his frantic pacing around the bed or something, judging by the noise coming from behind the closed door.

Now, though… Sherlock stands behind a kitchen chair and clenches his hands around the top rail. His grip is tight, knuckles white with the effort. He had just stepped out of the bathroom while John drank his evening cup of tea.

John sets his mug on the table and rises from his own chair, alarmed but willing himself to stay calm. He switches to crisis mode, with a single-minded focus on the problem at hand, to provide reassurance, assistance, protection, relief. “Tell me.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Haematuria.”

“Oh.” John comes around the table and sets a gentle hand on his forearm. “Right, that could be due to a number of reasons… Are you feverish? Any pain? How deep was the colour when you peed? Any clots?”

“Well.” Sherlock seems to be mildly embarrassed. For someone who has no qualms in deducing intimate details about anyone around him, he is usually quite unwilling to discuss his own bodily fluids and ailments. “I do have some back pain. Mostly on the left side.” He rubs his left hand on the lumbar region. “The urine was… pink? It’s not like it was running blood. No clots.”

“Did you do anything stupid today, like getting into a fight where you got a kick on the kidneys or drinking a home-concocted potion?” John delivers the question in the most neutral of fashions, as if either could be a completely reasonable cause for Sherlock’s present suffering.

Sherlock frowns. “What the hell, John?”

“Just answer the question–”

“ _No_ , and _no_ , _doctor_ ,” Sherlock spits. “Really, John. I was home all day, then my back starts cramping, now I’m urinating blood, and the first thing you think is I have inflicted this on myself. Your bedside manners are quite lacking.”

John sighs. Now that Sherlock mentions it, John does notice his defensive posture due to lateral pain. “Alright, I’m sorry. Just ruling out kidney damage. Contusion or–”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Sherlock releases the chair and moves into the living-room, where he restarts his pacing. Silently, John fetches a thermometer. “May I take your temperature and ask you a few more questions?”

Sherlock seems to relent at John’s gentle tone. He pauses and looks up at John, who leads him into his chair, takes his temperature, feels his pulse. “Temp’s normal, pulse is a bit high, but I’ll need you to rest for a few minutes before getting an accurate reading, so sit still.” He sits across from Sherlock and starts questioning him. “Describe the pain for me. Is it dull, throbbing, stabbing? Is it only on the left side?”

“Yes. Left side. Cramping like hell. Or throbbing. Whatever.” He swallows heavily, words coming out in a ragged exhale. “Took 400 mg ibuprofen an hour ago, which was as effective as a sugar pill.” He gets up and starts walking around the living-room again.

John is about to protest but then he considers. “Does it feel better to walk around than to sit still?”

“Counterintuitively enough, yes.” Sherlock aims for derision but he’s clearly too tired and aching to put any real venom in his reply.

Intense, cramping unilateral back pain that makes the patient restless… “Sherlock, does it burn when you pee?”

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and arches a questioning eyebrow at John. “Um. Now that you mention it. You are thinking UTI. Not consistent with back pain, though.”

“Sherlock, which one of us is the medical doctor here?” John chides not without gentleness. Sherlock is not feverish, but… “It could be if there’s, for example, a kidney infection. You should do some blood work sooner rather than later.”

“For back pain? Not likely. Get me some morphine instead, I’ll be fine in the morning.”

In the past, such a request would have been met with bristling from John, which would have been returned with mockery from Sherlock about John’s ridiculous moral compass on drug usage, which would have made John angry and stomp off to his bedroom. But that was in the past. Now, the way Sherlock tries and fails to make a lark about the morphine is more telling of his friend’s actual mental and physical state than his real wish to take Class A drugs. Sherlock is in obvious pain but his aversion to healthcare institutions means John must tread carefully if he’s to convince Sherlock to do something about his situation.

“Look, Sherlock… can we make a deal?” Sherlock looks dubiously at him but gives a go-on nod. “I have paracetamol somewhere; you can take one gram now. But we’ll monitor for any signs of infection in the next few hours, okay? And if the pain does not abate, we _will_ go to St Mary’s. We’re not risking your kidneys because you’re a stubborn dick.” Despite the gentleness, John is leaving no room for discussion, and Sherlock seems to sense this as he nods again, this time in agreement. “And drink plenty of water; it will help if it’s just a simple UTI.”

Sherlock exhales an exhausted sigh, but gratefully receives a glass of water and two pills from John’s hands a minute later.

\---

“John? John.”

John groans awake, rubs his eyes and looks up. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock darkens the doorway to John’s bedroom. John glances at his alarm clock – 5:37 a.m., the dawn just starting to push through his curtains and the now open door. John turns on his bedside-table lamp and looks up at Sherlock with an inquisitive noise, but any questions die on his tongue as he takes in Sherlock’s haggard looks.

“The pain had abated somewhat but,” he tries to take a deep breath, but it is halting rather than soothing, “it’s come back again quite intense and… well. Perhaps it is an UTI after all. It radiates to my groin.” He looks like hell, large dark rings under his clear eyes, stiff as a board, jaw clenched in obvious discomfort.

“Okay… okay.” John throws the duvet back and sits up. He only hesitates a moment before walking up to Sherlock and holding him gently by a wrist, more for comfort than any actual examination. Nevertheless, John registers a (thankfully) normal body temperature. He rubs a distracted thumb over Sherlock’s smooth skin. “I know you hate hospitals and such, but we really have to rule out problems with your kidneys. I’ll take you to the surgery to check for an infection as soon as it opens, okay?”

“Can’t you do that here?” Sherlock whines.

John shakes his head. “We need to draw blood and a urine sample. Try not to pee for now. If it’s an UTI, we might need to culture, and it works best with urine that’s been a couple of hours in the bladder.”

Sherlock pinches his eyes shut as a new set of spasms rocks him – John feels how his posture stiffens further. He gives Sherlock a friendly squeeze before releasing his wrist. “I’m going to get you more painkillers. Sit down on the bed.”

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock does not protest and he sits down while John fetches more pills and water. As John walks downstairs and fills a glass with tap water, the last wisps of sleep leave him. He considers Sherlock’s symptoms, their onset and evolution. Sherlock reacts positively to NSAIDs, but the pain is still intense; fresh blood in his urine, unilateral, cramping pain, no pyrexia… A few possible diagnoses shuffle through his brain, and he tries to hope for the least complicated one.

When he returns to his room, he’s surprised to see Sherlock half-lying on the bed, nose buried in John’s pillow but naked feet still on the floor. John helps him gently to sit up, makes him take the pills and the glass of water. He takes in his friend’s misery, a downturned mouth, shallow breathing, rigidity fighting exhaustion. Before he thinks too much about it, he eases Sherlock back down on the mattress, walks around the bed and goes in under the duvet. “Try to rest a bit for now. We’ll go to the surgery as soon as possible, yeah?”

Sherlock sighs and relaxes minutely into the mattress. “Okay.” A moment later, “Thank you.” He squirms on the bed for a while, obviously not finding any position that would give him relief. Some twenty minutes later he falls asleep.

John, unable to go back to sleep, hopes this means the painkillers helped. He extends a hesitant hand and brushes curls from Sherlock’s forehead. _It’s just comfort_ , he tells himself, _just to make sure he’s alright_. Worry blends with fondness as he watches Sherlock doze and the dawn light fills up the room.

\---

Later in the morning Sherlock is brooding at John’s clinic waiting for blood and urine analyses results. John had refused to directly assist Sherlock at work, quoting the General Medical Council’s guidelines for maintaining a professional boundary between doctor and patient, and that their friendship was a bit too close to erode such a boundary. Naturally, Sherlock had disagreed but since John had been adamant about this point, he had no choice but to refer to his “official” GP, Dr Afzal.

A lively and not easily rattled woman, Dr Afzal patiently explains to Sherlock that he seems to have a light UTI. It is not severe enough though to explain the level of pain, and so she refers him to St Mary’s for a CT scan. Sherlock bursts into John’s office after he’s done with Dr Afzal, demands John take the day off, and disappears in a huff when John stubbornly refuses.

All in all, John thinks Sherlock’s combative mood is a turn for the better.

\---

A few days pass. Sherlock still complains about intermittent pain, but in general it seems to be gradually disappearing. The urine culture comes back negative for bacteria, and Sherlock manages pain with NSAIDs under John’s watchful eye.

“You make a fuss about not being my GP at the surgery, but then nag me endlessly at home to take painkillers.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to take care of you,” John replies carefully, “it’s just that someone might think it unethical. The last thing I need is a complaint to the GMC.” Sherlock huffs in impatience, and John decides to change the course of the conversation. “When is your CT scheduled?”

“Next Monday.” Four days more. John frowns at this. There was no evidence of early stages of kidney damage, but surely this was classified as a subacute event?

Sherlock seems to read his mind. “Yes, I also thought it was a long wait, was told they’re very booked and as long as my symptoms don’t evolve, I should be fine.”

“Yeah, true. Dr Afzal did mention she thought it was a kidney stone, right?”

Sherlock nods. “The pain is slowly disappearing. Maybe I passed it without noticing?”

John sends him a sympathetic smile. “Oh Sherlock. I’m afraid you _will_ know when you pass the stone.”

\---

The day of the CT scan arrives, and Sherlock is not happy. With instructions to drink a litre of water and not go to the loo two hours before the scan, he is cursing everything and everybody around him. John takes pity on him and accompanies Sherlock to St Mary’s but draws the line at going in the actual CT room with Sherlock.

John is waiting outside the imaging services when Sherlock leaves the CT scan room, almost sprinting while holding a small plastic bag in his hand. He looks positively _furious_ , and John is baffled. “Sherlock, what happened? How did it go?”

Sherlock throws away the small bag in a rubbish bin with more violence than needed and replies between clenched teeth, “It went _just fine_.”

Which John translates, with the help of his mental Sherlockian-English dictionary, to ‘not fine at all’. “Can you slow down? What was in the bag?”

“Leave it, John.”

“But–”

“I said, _leave it_.” Sherlock increases his stride towards the exit, forcing John into a semi-jog to keep up. He manages to hold Sherlock’s arm hard enough to halt him. Sherlock spins around his heel to glare at John. “Let me _go_ , John!”

John feels Sherlock’s muscles tense under his hand but does not let go. He takes the opportunity to have a good look at Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock is furious, but there’s more to it. There’s an undertone of… embarrassment? “Sherlock, swear to god, I will go back and retrieve that bag if it’s something you were given by–”

“It’s not.” Sherlock aims for venom, but he sounds exhausted instead. His shoulders drop, all fight in him gone in an exhale. “They were just… my underpants. Didn’t want to keep them any longer.” The last words are mumbled towards the floor as he avoids John’s gaze.

John puts two and two together. “Did you have… an accident in there?”

Sherlock’s moue is all John needs as confirmation. Not an unusual occurrence – a full bladder combined with, John reasons, contrast being injected in a rather lengthy examination is enough to push a lot of people just onto the wrong side of ‘needing to go to the loo’. A few seconds after injecting contrast, most people feel hot all over and a pressure in the bladder. Some people can’t avoid it, and the result is a wet table and an embarrassed patient. He had certainly heard enough stories from radiology personnel to know this was a common event. Being the proud man Sherlock is, this would have been a truly mortifying experience for him.

John slides his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm in a hopefully comforting way. To his relief, Sherlock leans into the soothing touch and relaxes minutely. “I do not want to talk about it.”

“We don’t have to. Let’s just go home. We’ll pick up dinner at the new Chinese place on Edgware Road, how about it?”

Sherlock nods with gratitude in his eyes.

John doesn’t let go of his arm until they reach the outdoors.

\---

Unfortunately, while the pain had relented somewhat, the evening of the CT scan debacle sees Sherlock taking a turn for the worse. He’s in so much pain the NSAIDs aren’t quite cutting it – and John is not going to prescribe narcotics to his flatmate unless he wants to get into _really_ hot water with the GMC.

“We can go to St Mary’s, Sherlock. It’s going to be the closest urgency treatment centre anyway.”

Sherlock, walking around in frantic circles in the living-room, flaps a dismissive hand. “Not going back to that place.” His voice is strained, breath shaky with the obvious discomfort he’s in. He’s been half growling, half panting in pain for most of the evening and while John is sympathetic, his own patience is running thin.

“It’s not the same department, you won’t see radiology.” John suspects Sherlock is unwilling to cross paths with any personnel who might have been involved in his CT scan. Chances are very low, anyway – different shift, different clinic in the large hospital. “Short cab ride, and as I said, I’ll come with you.”

“I’m an adult, John, I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

There is an awkward short interlude where neither of them knows how to react to this. John’s unhelpful mind decides to quickly think _I wouldn’t mind_ before the more conscious part shakes such thoughts away. Sherlock seems confused at his own words. On the other hand, his face has gone through so many different grimaces in the last hour John can’t really read him any longer.

“At least let me ring you a cab. And if you change your mind, just call me and I’ll be right there.”

For the umpteenth time, Sherlock drags himself to the loo and slams the door shut. John knows what is happening next – Sherlock whimpers, curses, whimpers a bit more, flushes the loo, then there’s a minute where nothing else happens except hand washing and then Sherlock comes out looking green. Rinse and repeat.

“Still hurts when you pee?”

“Please stop fussing about my micturition and get me a cab.”

\---

The clock ticks well over midnight, and Sherlock has still not returned. John changes into his pyjamas, goes to bed and tries to fall asleep, but he keeps tossing and turning, his thoughts busy with his friend’s ailment. Of course, there had not been an immediate diagnosis after the CT scan – results are sent to the physician who wrote the referral as the scan needs to be thoroughly analysed – and so there is still no definite idea of what is going on with Sherlock. The kidney stone is the most likely scenario, though.

Finally, John hears the front door to 221 closing, more of a quiet snick than a slam, and Sherlock’s steps on the staircase. The pace and the gait on the old wooden steps tell John that Sherlock is not free of pain. Concerned, he throws back his duvet and sits up on the mattress, naked feet on the cold floor. He’s about to get up when he realises Sherlock is not stopping at the landing but continuing upstairs. Towards John’s bedroom, instead of his own. Soon enough, there’s a soft rap on his door, and John is already grabbing the handle. Sherlock has not removed his beloved coat, the cold of the late night still clinging onto the fibres, and he’s wearing the most miserable look on his face John has perhaps ever seen.

Which turns him proper alarmed. “Sherlock, what–”

Sherlock crumples in John’s arms.

Startled by Sherlock’s fall, John has time to do little else than gather him in his arms and slowly lower both of them to the floor. At first, John believes Sherlock to have fainted or had a dizzy spell. He is proven wrong when he feels Sherlock shaking, and hears a sob.

Sherlock is _crying_. In John’s arms, on the floor of John’s room.

John senses this is no time for questions. Instead, he rearranges limbs to the best of his abilities, shuffles so he’s sitting on the cold, hard floor, and hugs Sherlock, lays Sherlock’s head onto his shoulder, and allows him to weep. John rubs one comforting hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and the other through his curls. He is lost, unable to do more for his friend until he calms down and explains what caused this state of bereavement.

After short minutes turned long by the discomfort of the floor and of the whole situation, Sherlock takes a few deep, shaky breaths. “Sorry,” he whispers, without lifting his forehead where it lies pressed against John’s shoulder.

The situation becomes vivid and sharp in John’s head, as he continues to sit with an armful of Sherlock. If it had been as of late harder and harder to define their relationship, this moment makes crystal clear that “flatmates” and “friends” are horribly inaccurate definitions.

“Nothing to apologise for,” John whispers back, and means it, asserts it with one last threading of fingers into disarrayed curls. He slides his hands onto Sherlock’s biceps and lifts him gently, attempting to make Sherlock face him. “Can you get up?”

He gets a tired nod as reply and soon enough they are standing, John helping Sherlock remove his long coat and drape it over a chair. He leads Sherlock to the bed, makes him sit on the edge, and sits next to him. He lets a few moments pass, lets Sherlock gather his thoughts and tell his story at his own pace.

Finally, Sherlock speaks. “I was triaged soon after registering. A nurse told me to lie down on a gurney and wait. So, I waited, although I couldn’t well lie still, you know how I was…” John gives him a brief squeeze on his forearm – _I hear you_ – and lets him continue. “There’s a nurse to collect blood, and another gave me a cup to pee in. The toilet was just around the corner, but it took me forever to get there. And then they collected the cup and then I waited. And waited. Most of the time I spent in that godawful place, I waited, John. There was a privacy curtain drawn around the gurney, but it doesn’t really block anything now, does it? _Privacy_ ,” Sherlock snorts derisively.

“No, I suppose not.” This is not the time to tell Sherlock there are very good reasons to have such measures in place.

“Finally, a doctor shows up. A ‘Dr Johnstone’ or something. He…” Sherlock trails off. He clasps his hands hanging between his knees, tries to find words to continue. “He told me the blood work was good, and the urine sample showed markers for light infection, which is not uncommon if this is all caused by a kidney stone. Told me I was reacting well to NSAIDs and that if necessary there would be a follow-up CT scan. Then asked me if I had any further questions before discharge.”

Sherlock takes a ragged breath and bows his head. _He’s exhausted, physically and emotionally_ , John realises. And then he wonders about what Sherlock has _not_ said. “Wait. Did they give you more painkillers?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I asked for help with pain relief as soon as I got there, stated clearly I had taken ibuprofen and paracetamol… and that it was not helping.” There’s another ragged breath, and eyes fluttering shut. “The doctor told me then it… it was complicated to give me anything stronger because of my medical history.”

John is completely baffled at this. “Did they give you anything to drink? Put you on an IV?”

“No.”

“So, you got no medication at all? No antispasmodic?”

“ _No._ ” Sherlock aims for irritation but is too worn out to have any biting bitterness. “I refused to listen to his rubbish any longer and left.” A sigh.

“Christ, Sherlock. In how much pain are you _now_?”

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and turns to face John. “I don’t know any more.”

John looks at his friend’s red-rimmed eyes and his heart shatters. Sherlock has been clean for a long time but his history with substance abuse has come back to haunt him at the worst possible occasion. On one hand, John understands the reluctance in giving oxy or morphine to an addict. On the other hand, a one-time administration hasn’t been linked to significant relapses, and even when relapse risk exists, treatment with opioids can be carefully administered. Had they at least considered a spasmolytic?

John evaluates Sherlock’s present condition. He might be in less pain now, but he’s still not well. John can’t do more for pain relief right now except counting hours and make sure Sherlock tops up his ibuprofen/paracetamol combo as soon as it is safe. “A warm bath.”

Sherlock frowns, confused. “A warm bath?”

“It will help with the spasms, I promise. I’ll run it for you, alright?” John slides a warm hand up Sherlock’s arm, lands it on his shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll even throw in my favourite rubber ducky.” He receives the expected reaction – a complete eye-roll – and gets up from the bed. “Do you need help walking downstairs?”

Sherlock also gets up albeit a bit more stiffly and shakes his head. “Not necessary, I’ll manage. I think the pain has receded a bit.” He bites his lower lip, suddenly shy and a bit embarrassed. “Thank you, John. It’s… you’ve helped.”

John smiles. The late hour is settling a blanket of fatigue on the two men, but they walk downstairs. John runs ahead of Sherlock, making a beeline to the bathroom and turning on the cold and hot water taps until the mixture falling in the bathtub is just a hair below scalding. He hesitates for a moment, then walks into Sherlock’s bedroom, picks up fresh pyjamas and takes them back to the bathroom, laying them neatly on a stool. He glances nervously over his shoulder and notices Sherlock has caught up and is hovering undecided between the bathroom and the bedroom doors.

John clears his throat. “I’ll uh. Step out and let you get in the water.” He steps out to the kitchen as Sherlock slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet snip. John hears adjustments to the flow of the water, and then the splashing noise from the faucet stops; there’s sloshing noises and a drawn-out grunt as Sherlock lowers himself into the bathtub. Feeling a bit of a creep for listening in to his friend’s noises, John decides to put the kettle on. He’s definitely not sleepy now.

When enough time has passed for Sherlock’s bath water to have cooled and John’s tea consumed, Sherlock comes out of the bathroom dressed in the pyjamas John had left him. A fresh cup of tea is gratefully accepted, and the two men sit across the kitchen table, the lamp from the cabinets their only source of light. It’s quiet, the warmth from the bath emanating from both the door left ajar and Sherlock’s body, and John tries to not inhale too deeply. Instead, he asks quietly, “Better?”

Sherlock nods in return. “Yes. It helped. Thank you.” His answer is also quiet, dampened by exhaustion, discomfort, and sadness. He cradles the tea mug with long fingers, looks pensively at his cooling beverage.

“For what it’s worth,” John continues carefully, “in my opinion you were not well attended. At all. You’re not an active user, so there really is no reason to not give you an opioid for such severe pain.” He sighs. This is not an easy subject for various reasons. First of all, no one can evaluate how much pain a patient _really_ is in – except the patient himself. The pain scale is as useful as the capability of the patient to understand it. Second, not even medical professionals are immune to disinformation and errors of judgement, and in the fast pace of an A&E setting, things can get overlooked. John wants to defend his colleague but at the same time he knows they were wrong, and that is because he knows Sherlock. Sherlock, who had escaped a hospital bed while recovering from a gunshot wound to protect John’s life. Admittedly, he had been drenched in morphine, but he had not been free from pain, far from it. Sherlock, who routinely claims his body is transport and therefore any ailments can and will be ignored.

The same Sherlock sits before John, defeated, not by a kidney stone, but by ignorance and prejudice.

John rises slowly from his chair, walks around the table, stops a few inches from his friend.

Sherlock lifts his gaze from his tea.

Perhaps it’s the late hour; perhaps it’s the fragility of the moment. Perhaps it’s because it’s dark, and warm and they’re both in their pyjamas, and there is a need for comforting and being comforted. All John knows is it feels natural to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, draw Sherlock’s head to his chest, thread fingers through soft, damp curls. Sherlock yields to this reassurance of safety, burrows his face in John’s chest and breathes, the humid exhale penetrating the thin layer of cotton on John’s torso. With a gentleness befitting the night-time, John pulls his friend on his feet, guides him down the hallway to the bedroom and into the bed, covers him with the soft duvet, and sits on the edge of the mattress. They look at each other for a long moment; soon enough, Sherlock’s lashes flutter as he closes his eyes, fatigue finally lulling him to sleep.

John gets in bed behind Sherlock and gathers him in his arms. He’ll think about what he’s just done later. For now, all he cares is the way Sherlock relaxes into him.

\---

A week passes, then another. There had been a phone call with the results from the CT scan: a five-millimetre distal stone, close to the bladder, had been identified as the culprit, and a referral sent to urology at St Mary’s. There had been fortunately no new crippling pain attacks, but it is obvious Sherlock is not comfortable. From the little John can pull out of him, he understands Sherlock has basically pain every time he urinates, and that most days there is spasmodic pain, although manageable with NSAIDs. John keeps an eye on how much and how often Sherlock takes them, and they develop a habit of not leaving home without painkillers. He places glasses of water and cups of tea near Sherlock and makes sure he drinks them.

They do not speak of the night they spent together. It’s fine, John thinks. It had been platonic comforting between friends. Nothing inappropriate about it.

As a third and a fourth week pass, John wonders aloud when Sherlock’s appointment with a urologist had been. How had he missed this?

“There hasn’t been any appointment, John,” Sherlock replies casually, without lifting his eyes from the newspaper he’s tearing into small bits on the desk (John assumes a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ at this behaviour for his own peace of mind).

“But it’s been a month! Are you sure you didn’t just, you know. Delete it?”

An exasperated sigh is all John gets as an answer.

“Come on, Sherlock, it’s important! You can’t possibly ignore that appointment. Call them and book a new one right now.”

Sherlock snaps his head up and John sees rage in his eyes. He braces himself for a Sherlockian tirade against the futility of the medical establishment and the incompetence of all his colleagues and the idiocy of the world at large. He’s taken aback by the actual answer:

“There hasn’t been an appointment! Nobody has called me, I did not receive any letter, _nothing_ has happened! And at this point, I’m almost hoping nothing will!”

The delivery is harsh but above all filled with resentment.

“There could have been a mistake. It’s still worthwhile to contact them. You shouldn’t go so long with that stone not coming out. If it’s not coming out in the natural way, it should be removed,” John insists. _What the hell, he needs follow-up!_

Sherlock shivers, in disgust or dread, and mumbles something about calling St Mary’s when he’s finished with the experiment.

\---

It turns out there is no need for a phone call, as Sherlock receives a letter in the mail that same day. With an appointment for a new CT scan. Three weeks away.

“What the hell!” He’s choleric as John has rarely seen him, pacing the room to spend pent-up energy. “Is this some sort of twisted joke? Why on earth do I have to go through this torture again?”

“They need to know if the stone has moved–“

“Of course it has not moved, I can tell them that myself!” He slams the letter on the desk. “I’m not going.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m. Not. Going. There’s no justification on why I should repeat that horrendous examination. Was the first one not humiliating enough?” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock all but runs into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John can’t blame him. He wonders where exactly things went wrong. At the same time, he knows the blame is to be put on a system with overworked personnel, understaffed facilities, budget problems. An otherwise healthy young adult with an uncomplicated renal calculus is not going to be ranked important when there are cancer patients having their potentially life-saving surgeries cancelled or postponed. Sherlock’s history with substance abuse will always make caretakers ill at ease with pain management, even if that attitude is unfair and unjustified.

Why would Sherlock accept being chewed up by a system that does not seem to care much for him?

At the same time, John knows he can’t go so long without removing the stone. Sherlock is in pain, and there’s always a risk for further infection, that could reach the kidney. Even if John is watching Sherlock like a hawk, an infection can come quickly. He knows he’s operating with catastrophic worst-case scenarios but…

But it’s Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. How can John not strip off his doctor persona and worry about his friend?

He stares at the closed door, ponders how to proceed. Reminds himself that Sherlock is an adult and prickly when it comes to make decisions about his own well-being. And, well. He does have a live-in doctor.

John walks to Sherlock’s bedroom, knocks on the door. No reply.

“I’m not coming in,” John starts. _Give him a choice_ , he reminds himself. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I am concerned about you, and want you to feel better soon, that’s all. I imagine it’s not all that fun to have pain all the time.” He pauses, but there’s still no reply. The silence is dense, a barrier stronger than the flimsy door. “Just… please, just let me know if you need anything, alright? We can monitor you at home. Maybe the stone will pass soon.”

To his surprise, a sheepish Sherlock opens the door slowly. “You mean it? You won’t force me to do the scan?”

He looks so small and lost, John’s heart breaks all over again. “If you are sure the stone has not passed, I also don’t see a reason to do another scan. We know from the last one that the calculus was lodged very near the ureterovesical junction. A very short way from the bladder. When the stone moves to the bladder, it will then go onwards to the urethra. This will also cause pain, I’m afraid,” John smiles a sympathetic smile, “but things usually progress fast after that.”

“Isn’t there a way to make it move faster?”

“Plenty of liquids should help–”

“I’ve ingested liquids corresponding to several volumes of the Thames, John.”

The petulant tone makes John grin wider. It’s a good sign if Sherlock is more like himself instead of the pale, subdued version from the last weeks. John makes a half gesture suggesting they take the conversation back to the sitting-room, to which Sherlock acquiesces.

The two men take their chairs in front of the hearth. John mulls a bit about options. “There’s some medication that could help. But, Sherlock, I’m still not comfortable in prescribing it myself, and it would be good to get new lab work before–”

“Out of the question.” Sherlock sighs. “There has to be another way”.

John shakes his head. “Procedures like shockwave lithotripsy or ureteroscopy can’t be done at home, so if you want to avoid the hospital…”

And then, John remembers. A thought buried long ago crystallises in his mind. He fetches his laptop and starts searching.

\---

Sometime later, John looks up from his computer to find Sherlock still sitting across from him but apparently deep in his mind palace. Hands steepled below chin, eyes closed, slow breathing. At least he looks peaceful, free from the sheen of anxiety the damned stone has been giving him (and John per extension).

John is done with his internet research. He clears his throat. Loudly. Twice. Three times. Rolls his eyes and decides for a more direct approach by shaking one of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Sherlock startles and glares. “I’m _busy_.”

“No, you’re not. Look, I remembered something that might help. It’s,” he chuckles. _It’s an insane idea, that’s what it is_ , he thinks. “Alternative methods to move the stone.”

Sherlock gives him a glare glacial enough to think the winter is coming back. John pushes onward, “It’s mostly anecdotal evidence but there’s a couple of publications. I researched two, um, unorthodox methods that _may_ help. Not anything I am particularly recommending as a physician, but I recall reading about this and so...”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and gestures a ‘go on’ with a hand flap, curiosity winning over arctic disdain.

“There’s a study about how riding a rollercoaster can help moving a stone.” Sherlock’s other eyebrow shoots up, but John is not deterred. “There’s also a study suggesting frequent, huh, intercourse might help. Get things moving.” He feels himself getting red as a beet.

Sherlock has the audacity to laugh heartily at John’s suggestions – or his embarrassment. “I think we skip the alternative methods. I don’t know which one is more ludicrous.”

John doesn’t know either. Obviously, he can’t help with the second method but the first holds some appeal. Not that the second method isn’t appealing but… Anyway. “Just a thought, that’s all.”

With a wince, Sherlock gets up from his chair and pads gingerly to the bathroom for the umpteenth time that day.

John sighs.

\---

Another week passes. They still go on cases, but Sherlock is subdued and solves mysteries as if they were a chore. He does not preen at praise and is on edge, anxious and moody. The outside observer would not notice much of a change to standard Sherlock behaviour, but John knows best – it is not the usual contempt over the idiocy of the hoi polloi but rather the feeling of wanting to be elsewhere.

In this case, John is pretty sure Sherlock simply wants to be outside his body. The whole time, Sherlock has been showing signs of still being in pain, with frequent visits to the loo and general restlessness. He goes for walks and paces nervously around the flat, shoulders tense and brow furrowed.

As John considers bringing up again the subject of medical help one late Sunday morning, Sherlock surprises him. “About those alternative methods.”

John flushes – the first thing that comes to his mind is the… frequent intercourse method. Sherlock is oblivious to John’s discomfort. “The rollercoaster thing. It’s. Well, it sounds scientifically reasonable.” He cringes. “I am willing to try.”

“That’s great, Sherlock! And even if it does not work, you’ll still have had some fun. Nothing lost, right?” John’s imagination starts running loose: they could go on a day trip to Thorpe Park, perhaps even stay a night in the area, take Sherlock to a nice restaurant as a reward…

“ _Fun_.” Sherlock scrunches his nose as if the word tastes acrid. “I’m not going to have _fun_ , John. What sort of perverted souls voluntarily board a flimsy, garishly painted carriage and allow themselves to be subjected to a pointless ride just to experience several _g_ in the course of two minutes?”

“Not pointless if they get you rid of kidney stones, now is it? Besides, there’s more to an amusement park than rollercoasters.”

“Like _what_?”

“Erm… there’s other attractions… Sherlock, you _have_ been to an amusement park before, right?”

Sherlock ponders a moment. “I once chased an embezzler through Legoland in Windsor– what?”

John is shaking his head with a chuckle. “Not on a case, you nutter. Just for _fun_. You know, maybe with Mycroft and your parents when you were kids?”

“John,” Sherlock looks part exasperated, part bemused, and very much trying to not snicker, “do you really think Mycroft and I were the sort of children to frequent amusement parks?”

“I… yeah, no.” The thought of a young Mycroft sharing a teacup ride with an even younger Sherlock almost sends him into hysterics. “Alright, I’ll organise an outing for us, how does that sound?”

There is hope in Sherlock’s eyes. “You’ll come with me?” He looks young and uncertain, not quite believing he would not have to go to some amusement park by himself.

“’Course, Sherlock. Of course, I will come with you.”

\---

Sherlock begrudgingly accepts the idea of a rollercoaster ride. Located one hour’s car drive away, Thorpe Park is at a perfect distance for a day trip. John purchases entrance tickets in advance, investigates options for a romantic… no, intimate… no, well, a _nice_ place to eat lunch, and hopes the weather gods will smile on them.

His prayers are answered: the day of the trip (a weekday, to avoid big crowds and long lines) is the first sunny day after a long week of drizzle and greyness, and his spirits are high. Sherlock is less engaged in the whole affair. He shifts uncomfortable in the seat (John had insisted on driving) and looks bored through the window at the passing landscape. At the first sight of the island where the park is built, he scrunches his nose in distaste. Diverse rides shape a profile that rises above the tree line and cuts against the blue sky; the water surrounding the island shimmers with the morning sun. They drive through the car entrance and park the car near the bridge that connects mainland to the isle. As they step out, the air is filled with whooshing sounds of train cars in high speed and distant screams of terror and joy.

“Brainless masses screeching at seventy miles per hour. Marvellous.” Sherlock tightens his coat closer to his body against the chilly morning air.

“Don’t worry, the IQ of the screeching masses will go up as soon as you join them,” John quips back.

Sherlock strides towards the bridge. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What’s the rush?” John jogs to keep up. “We have the whole day. Plenty to see and ride on.” 

Sherlock stops dead on his tracks and John stops abruptly lest he barrels into him. “What makes you think,” Sherlock articulates every word with deadly precision, “I will stay in this pit of meaningless entertainment constructed for the feeble-minded masses a minute longer than necessary?”

Arms akimbo, John lifts his chin just that little bit higher up, the centimetre or so that makes Sherlock hesitate. “You will spend a few hours in this place or so help me. It’s a long trip for just one ride.”

“The purpose of which is exclusively therapeutic–”

“–and you will enjoy yourself, or at least keep me company while I enjoy myself, end. Of. Discussion.” John marches past Sherlock to the entry gate, a hand reaching for the mobile in his inner pocket to pull up their tickets. Sherlock gapes incredulously at first but then follows John, brooding. Hearing the angry stomping behind him, John smirks in triumph.

\---

The day flows faster than either of them expected. John acquiesces to Sherlock’s request to start with a rollercoaster, the main objective of the day. Both men jump out of the ride giggling and flushed, Sherlock admitting it had been more fun than he had anticipated. From then on, it’s easier to convince Sherlock to go on another ride, and another – in fact the only ride John says no to consists of a vertical drop, and Sherlock does not insist on it.

They eat at one of the park’s restaurants. Sherlock orders fish and chips and John a hamburger and they end up picking bits from each other’s plates while deciding what to go on after lunch. As the day advances, more people flow in, mostly school groups and parents with young children, and while it is not packed, the place starts to feel populated. There’s less stamina for high thrilling rides after food, and the two men take a leisurely stroll around the park, drifting towards quieter areas. They’re never really far away from any ride, and the blend of mechanical sounds with those of merriment is a constant background, but they find a path that runs along the water and slow their pace.

John nudges Sherlock with an elbow. “Having fun, after all?” A light-hearted tease that prompts an easy smile on his companion.

“I must admit the whole venture is proving to be more enjoyable than predicted.”

“Except for the candy floss incident,” John chides without heat.

“ _Especially_ the candy floss incident!”

“Sherlock, the kid was crying after you told him he was in fact eating spiderwebs!” John tries his very best to not laugh.

Sherlock throws him a mock-scandalised look. “And you laughed at the whole situation!”

John bursts out laughing. “God help me, I did. Bit not good, that.”

Sherlock slows down and stops under the shade of a blossoming apple tree, hands buried in his long coat’s pockets and eyes downcast. “John, I…” John turns around as he realises Sherlock isn’t following and is momentarily worried about his health – is he in pain again? He hadn’t been showing signs the whole day. What John sees on his friend’s face instead of signs of pain is shyness and a hint of colour on his sharp cheekbones.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“Yes, yes, I just,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I just wanted to thank you. I admit I was not expecting to have such a pleasant time in an amusement park, but. But I am enjoying this visit.” He wears a small smile, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I do feel some pain as usual but for a few hours I almost forgot it. It’s been such a constant presence that I’ve accepted it as something I must live with.”

There is a vulnerability in Sherlock’s words that makes John cautious as he steps towards him and slowly, slowly reaches for his hand. They interlace fingers for a moment. The moment is fragile and threatens to shatter at the wrong word. “I’m enjoying this trip with you too, Sherlock.” John swallows thickly, and chooses his next words carefully. “Don’t accept pain as a part of you. You don’t deserve it. Of all people, you do not deserve it.”

A pair of sharp, intelligent eyes burrow into John’s, azure on grey, scrutinising and questioning, then relaxing and accepting whatever it is they find there. They share a smile, and with one last squeeze, they release hands and continue to walk in silence. If they walk a bit closer, elbows brushing and the sunny afternoon light wrapping around them, they do not comment on it.

\---

The next day is a regular workday for John. The seasonal flu and various colds are tapering off and being slowly but surely replaced by spring allergies and the usual blend of soft tissue injuries, rashes of more or less known origin, and pregnancy scares. John finds himself daydreaming between patients about the trip to Thorpe Park. After the lakeside walk, they had decided the mood for more thrill-seeking had wafted away. The drive back to London had been mostly quiet, and the evening peaceful and introspective, with a light supper, book reading by the fireplace and an early retreat to their bedrooms. Sherlock had been fidgety but not outright complaining of pain, and John let him be.

As he switches to the Jubilee line on Piccadilly, John considers his reasons to have taken Sherlock to Thorpe Park. He is forced to admit to himself it hadn’t all been about the kidney stone. Sure, there _is_ a study that links riding a rollercoaster with expelling stones a short time after but even the authors were cautious about their conclusions, with lots of caveats and an admittedly small population sample to work with.

It’s just that every day Sherlock spends trying to mask how unwell he is feeling, John’s heart breaks that little bit more. Perhaps experiencing three _g_ at seventy miles per hour wasn’t going to do much for Sherlock but the whole day had been _fun_. For once, they had simply enjoyed a relaxing day in each other’s company. They had enjoyed each other’s company, simply put. Sherlock’s token objection at the whole endeavour had been quickly brushed aside and they just… had fun. Shared candy floss, stole food from each other’s plates, giggled after rides, strolled along the lakeside under the shade of blossoming trees…

It had been a date. John has to admit to himself: he had taken Sherlock Holmes on a date.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, John is oblivious to having passed Bond Street and almost misses exiting the tube at Baker Street. It’s a short walk to 221 and he shakes off his circular thoughts about the trip and what all that meant as he climbs up the stairs to their flat.

The moment he steps in the living-room, Sherlock is pouncing on him, a predatory smile plastered on his face. “I have the most excellent news,” and he looks so happy, John’s heart clenches a little bit in his chest as if trying to grab the waves of euphoria Sherlock is emanating. Before John can ask what the good news is, Sherlock opens the palm of his right hand.

In the centre, a small stone, grainy in appearance, slightly oblong in shape, perhaps five millimetres long.

Their eyes meet, incredulous and euphoric and excited. “It happened half an hour ago,” Sherlock explains, “and the pain is gone. Gone, John!”

John laughs, claps both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I’m so happy for you! We should send that for analysis, to assess the chemical composition–” 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock interrupts with a scrunch of his nose, “it’s my property and I’m keeping it. Besides, it is clearly a calcium calculus. Look at the crystalline aggregation and the dark brown speckles, obvious.”

“Well, you’re the chemist.”

“Damn right I am,” and that settles the conversation on the fate of Sherlock’s kidney stone.

They decide celebration is in order and go out to a recently opened Thai place on Marylebone Road, just a ten-minute walk from their flat. Sherlock is buzzing with renewed energy, and John feels only relief. Relief that his friend’s ordeal is over, that no complications arose, that Sherlock is back to his old self.

“Can you believe it actually worked?” John asks between two forkfuls of stir-fried beef. “The whole riding a rollercoaster to get rid of the calculus, I mean.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Sherlock replies with a tiny smirk.

“Ah-ah, what do we say about coincidences?” The familiar banter rolls off their tongues as if well-rehearsed.

Sherlock takes another bite off his spring roll instead of replying with the answer they both know.

“At least, you don’t have to suffer the indignity of a visit to an amusement park again,” John quips.

“Oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t all that bad, I suppose.” Sherlock observes the remaining spring roll on his plate as if it is the most interesting object in the universe, avoiding John’s gaze altogether.

“What’s that? I thought you had something against ‘brainless screeching masses’, if I may quote you directly,” he replies without heat.

“I still do. But I did enjoy just… spending time with you.” Sherlock flicks his eyes up to John’s and down again and fiddles with the spring roll to have something to do with his hands.

 _Why is this so hard? Tell him_. “I enjoyed spending time with you too, Sherlock.” John’s voice is low, reverent, honest. “I always enjoy spending time with you. On a crime scene, at a restaurant, in front of our hearth, on amusement parks. It doesn’t matter where, I… I truly enjoy being with you.”

They eye each other for a moment that stretches for an eternity. John’s pulse is loud in his own ears, drowns the clatter of forks on plates and the sizzle of food in woks, mutes the shrill voices of the restaurant guests next table, erases the muffled traffic noises that seep through the front door.

John clears his throat. “So, uh-hum. I guess if this happens again, we know what to do.”

“Hmm. Hopefully, it will not happen during the winter season.”

“Ah, yes, those places close for winter,” John muses.

Sherlock sits upright in his chair. “I suppose… I would have to try that other alternative method.”

“The other– oh. Oh. Erm, right, yes.” John gives a nervous laughter. _Nothing wrong with that, he could easily find someone– with his looks, it wouldn’t be– crap, crap, crap, don’t think about it, don’t–_

“I hope that, as my personal physician,” Sherlock drawls, “you could help me with that particular therapy option,” and there is definitely a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

John takes the bait. “As your personal physician, I will give you a hand with any suitable therapy option, of course.” _You can’t beat me at flirting, Sherlock Holmes_.

“Only a hand?”

 _Okay, maybe you can_. “Perhaps more than a hand. The therapy should be… vigorous. To help, you know. Moving things along.”

“Hmm. Could it be applied as prophylaxis, you gather?”

 _Oh god_. This is it. There is no going around the subject now.

John lifts his chin and stares back with fondness and determination at the most important person in his life.

“Only one way to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> The study on passing stones after riding rollercoasters is [one hundred percent real](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5667542/), and the authors even ‘won’ [an IgNobel prize for it](https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-45513012). The, uh, other unusual method [seems to be legit too](https://www.renalandurologynews.com/home/news/urology/kidney-stones/sexual-intercourse-may-clear-distal-ureteral-stones/).  
> This story is based on true facts – all of this, in some way or another, happened to yours truly. Including passing a stone after a rollercoaster ride! Excluding the bit about being a recovering addict. But including the bit on personnel thinking I was faking symptoms to get opioids :(
> 
> Come and say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
